“I lost interest.”
“Because of the accident?”
He didn’t reply.
“It’s because she’s gone, isn’t it—your fiancée? You said you bought this place for her but now it means nothing because she’s not here.”
He whirled round, daggers in his eye, energy sparking off him.
Bella stalled, her breath snaring in her chest. She was pushing all his buttons and she knew it—she was hoping he’d snap, reveal some truth, give her an opening to tell him why he’d really invited her here. But she was also afraid of him now.
“Understand this, Amelie,” he said, voice low, cool. “I’m obliging your research. That’s all. And your research has nothing to do with me.”
“How long has it been, Tahar?” she whispered, pushing. “Since the accident.”
He glowered at her. Time stretched.
“Ten months,” he said finally.
She opened her mouth, surprised, again, by him telling the truth, but he stopped her abruptly with the palm of his hand. “Don’t,” he said. “Do not even try to say a thing. You wanted a tour—then let’s get the damn thing over with.” He started to walk again. “This is where the ghost of the abbess has supposedly been sighted most often,” he said, indicating the arches.
“Before I bought the place people used to come in through gaps in the property wall behind the cemetery to watch for the ghost. They claim that in a certain slant of moonlight her silhouette can be seen moving from archway to archway. Legend has it that her spirit comes up from the dungeons where her body is trapped, and she moves along this walkway trying to get up to the battlements. They say she stands up there sometimes and watches a moonlit sea. And when the storms blow in, as you already know, you can allegedly hear her screams.”
Goose bumps prickled over Bella’s skin. The air was markedly cooler as they neared the dark, dungeon entrance.
Tariq’s bodyguard stepped forward. He gave his boss a flashlight, then handed one to Bella. She noted he kept the third for himself, and wondered if he would follow them, or wait up here in case he was called down.
“Leave the puppy with him,” Tariq said crisply. “It’s dark down there, lots of places to lose a little dog.”
Reluctantly, she scooped up Kiki and placed the little dog in the huge bodyguard’s arms. His face was impassive, his eyes unreadable. Nervousness chased through Bella. She glanced at Tariq. “Madame Dubois will fire me, or worse, if something happens to that dog. I need my job.”
“Take the dog to the kitchen,” he said to his man.
“Kitchen?” Bella said.
“There’s an enclosed herb garden off the kitchen,” Tariq said. “There’s also food and water, and it’s a warm place to sleep. The chef likes animals.” He paused, something in his features softening almost imperceptibly. “Puppies get tired, you know. And hungry and thirsty. Kiki will be fine.”
“I…thank you. I’ve never had pets.”
“I’ve had plenty. Dogs, horses, birds.” He clicked on his flashlight, entered the dark archway.
Bella switched on her own beam of light and followed. She was getting closer and closer with his truths—she knew of his polo ponies, his hunting horses, his falcons. And he’d been unable to hide his tenderness for Kiki.
The air that seeped up the stairwell as they descended was heavy with the musty scent of age and moisture.
As they went deeper, the mustiness felt thick in her nostrils, the walls seemed to narrow in on them. The darkness pushing against their yellow beams grew so complete it felt tangible, sentient.
Uneasy, Bella panned her flashlight around. Shadows leaped and quivered as she moved. Her heart beat faster. She tried to stay close to Tariq. His black hair gleamed in the glow of her flashlight.
Lower down she heard dripping. Suddenly the air felt like pure ice.
At the bottom of the stairs he turned, waited for her. In the quavering shadows his face, his scars, his eye patch, looked threatening. Fear closed a noose around her neck—if she disappeared down here no one would ever find her. Bella told herself she was being ridiculous, but she could almost feel the weight of the monastery pressing down on her, and a wave of claustrophobia licked through her chest. She hated the idea of being trapped down here, hated thinking about the abbess’s bones behind one of these rock walls. Hated her sudden, irrational fear of this man, even as she was attracted to him.
“This way.” He touched her elbow, and she started, heart jackhammering. But all he wanted to do was guide her through what appeared to be a row between cells, the stone beneath their feet uneven and potholed. He shone his beam into one of the cells. Rusting shackles hung from chains embedded in the rock. The scent of mold, and something worse, was thick.
“If you’ve done your reading,” he said, “you’ll know about the prisoners that were brought down here during the rebellion.”
She swallowed, hugging even closer to him as he moved farther along the row. Air currents shifted around them, as if something was in the cold, dank shadows, watching, waiting, touching. She shivered.
“I can’t imagine the horror of being imprisoned down here,” she whispered.
“Some were left until they died.”
Bella panned her light into another cell as she passed. A rusted iron door hung open, bars across a tiny window in the door. She could almost feel terror in the dank air, hear screams. See whites of terrified eyes, smell rotten teeth, broken limbs, urine. For a moment she couldn’t move.
Tariq felt a shift in Amelie and turned. Her face was sheet white in the beam of his light.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yes, I…I’m fine.” But her eyes were wide.
“We can go back up—”
“No.” She touched his arm, and he tensed. “I need to see where the abbess’s body was walled in. Please.”
He glanced down at her hand on his arm, then gently, he took her by the elbow again. “Come, it’s at the end of this row of cells.”
Tariq liked the feel of Amelie against him, the way she was staying close. Too close. It made his mouth dry.
“How big is this dungeon area? How many rows like this?”
“It’s vast. A maze, and much of it in bad repair. You wouldn’t want to be lost down here without a light. Too easy to fall and get hurt.”
She held on to his arm tightly now, steadying herself as they stepped over crumbling rock. It gave Tariq a soft rush of power, to be needed, even just a little. Part of what he liked about being a doctor was being needed by people, and being able to help allay their fears, heal them. It gave him control. And having control over life made him feel alive. Valued. He realized just how much he’d lost that sense of virility after failing Julie—after having her die in his arms. And how Amelie was somehow infusing him with a sense of purpose again.
He stopped at the wall of wet, black stone.
“This is it,” he said to Amelie. “The abbess’s bones are supposed to be behind this wall.”
She gave a soft little intake of breath and bumped against him.
“What is it?” he said.
“I thought I felt…it’s nothing.”
He’d felt it, too—a presence, a sense of being watched. But for a moment Tariq couldn’t think beyond the firm softness of her breast pressing against his arm. And a need so fundamentally raw flooded through Tariq—an urge to gather her close, hold her tightly against his broken body, draw from her vitality, her warmth. To feel real—to make love again.
When he spoke again his voice came out thick. “She was apparently beheaded down here, her headless body tossed into this last cell before it was walled in with stone.”
Amelie panned the beam of her flashlight over the glistening rock wall. “And they stuck her head on a spike outside the main gate, all because she was harboring a fugitive?”
“A revolutionary,” he said. “Some claim he was her lover.”
She glanced up, met his gaze. Air stirred between them
, like icicles touching his skin. Amelie shivered, obviously feeling it, too.
“You think her bones are really in there?”
“I have no reason not to believe it.”
“And you haven’t thought of opening this wall up, checking? Maybe exhuming her remains?”
“Why?” he said quietly.
Surprise showed in her eyes. “I hate the idea of anyone being trapped down here. All this cold stone weighing down over your head, the darkness, the damp, the smell.”
“She’s dead, Amelie.”
“She should be brought up, buried properly in the cemetery.”
“So you can appease something in yourself? Because it’s not going to make any difference to the abbess.”
Amelie looked uneasy.
He gave a dry laugh, trying to shake the arousal in him, the way heat was pooling in his groin despite the chilling atmosphere. “I didn’t take you for one who believed in this spirit-and-ghost stuff.”
“I don’t. I… It’s just that there’s something tangible down here. I can feel…emotions.” Her words were suddenly clipped—he’d irked her.
“Maybe the abbess would stop haunting the abbey and screaming up in the turrets if she was laid to rest properly,” she said.
“It’s wind in the turrets, Amelie. There is no ghost.”
She turned her head sharply away, her mouth flat.
“Come.” He took her elbow again, to guide her back to the stairs. But she resisted, stopping him.
“Tahar.”
“What?”
She looked up at him, those eyes huge dark pools, her lips so close.
“I wish you would consider it one day—taking her up.”
“Amelie,” he said softly, “there might be bones behind that wall, then again, there might not. Maybe it’s just a story, island lore. The expense of structurally stabilizing the roof down here, taking out that wall—it’s not worth it.”
“I don’t know how you can live on top of her remains like this. Her spirit is trapped down here, and she can’t move over to the other side, or whatever it is that ghosts do. It’s about closure, Tahar,” she whispered. “We all need closure to move on. To be at peace.”
Her face was so close he could almost taste the warmth of her breath on his lips.
Suddenly he wanted to trust her—to believe she was exactly who she said she was. There was something genuine, even innocent in her. And it aroused a raw protective instinct him. He welcomed the return of these old sensations. It fuelled a new power growing in him. It gave him a sense of value. And God knew, it was a relief to feel something other than rage, however briefly.
But as he was about to speak, a scurrying sounded in the blackness. He swung his flashlight.
Amelie bumped against him again, peering into the darkness. “What was that?” she whispered.
The noise came again, nails scampering over stone.
Her hand closed around his arm. He could feel both her breasts against his torso now.
“Probably rats,” he said, voice thick, husky.
“God, this place is getting to me. I’m sorry.” She tried to step back, release him, but Tariq held on. Her face changed.
Almost of its own volition, his right hand reached up, touched her curls—her hair was soft, like silk. “It’s okay,” he whispered, drinking in her scent, feeling strands against his face.
She raised her face to him, her breathing becoming light. Lust swirled darkly in Tariq and he fought the urge to go further, to press his mouth to hers, to take her upstairs, to his room.
He reminded himself she could be an imposter—he had yet to hear from Omair. And he didn’t want to feel these things, to sleep with someone who could be a lie. Who had come to hurt him or his family.
Then again, maybe blind sex was what he wanted. Without the commitment. Without having to betray Julie’s memory.
“Tell me what happened to your past relationship, Amelie,” he whispered, needing to know more, who she really was, everything about her. “Why did you feel you needed to get away after your breakup?”
She was silent for a beat. “I’d prefer to talk upstairs, Tahar, it’s creepy down here.”
“Just tell me this, before we go up.”
It was easier for him to ask it down here, in the dark. It felt honest—her guard was down. She was vulnerable right now. And he felt he could say things down here that he couldn’t in the daylight.
“I go for the wrong men, Tahar. I thought this time was different.” She took a deep breath. “We’d talked marriage. Commitment. And all the while he was screwing someone else, someone in a position to advance his career. I—” Emotion gleamed sharp and sudden in her eyes. She gave a dry laugh, raising her hand to brush away a tear that escaped. “Guess I’m more messed up by it than I thought.”
He caught her hand, and wiped away the tear himself. As he touched her face, she leaned slightly into him. Tariq allowed his hand to linger, an incredible feeling surging through his body, his world clarifying in such a sharp and sudden way it startled him.
It was like finally seeing through fog. Down here, in the dark, everything seemed transparent.
“Why do you think you go for the wrong men, Amelie?” he said, softly, lowering his hand to her neck, feeling the flutter of her pulse at her carotid.
She inhaled, glanced toward the stairs. He could sense she felt trapped, but by more than just the darkness. She was locked into a pattern of behavior that was making her unhappy, and she was uncertain about whether to give in to his touch, go further.
“I don’t know, Tahar,” she said quietly. “I’m attracted to something physical in a man at first. Which isn’t unusual, I suppose.” She gave a nervous laugh. “And then the relationship becomes very physical, really fast. But when I look beyond the physicality, there’s nothing more. Nothing to sustain it. Sometimes I think I like to focus on the physical to avoid looking deeper.” She snorted softly. “And then the guy leaves, or it ends. And I, stupidly, feel used. Then I rinse, repeat. How pathetic is that? Except this last time I thought was different. It was exactly the same.”
“You’re sabotaging yourself, Amelie.”
She stilled, silent for several beats. “You’re saying I get what I ask for.”
“I’m saying you have choices. You’re making them for a reason.”
She didn’t reply.
“Maybe you don’t want the relationships to last,” he said. “Maybe you fear commitment for some underlying reason, or perhaps you don’t feel worthy of a good relationship?”
She turned abruptly away from him, aiming her flashlight toward the stairs. “I need to get out of here,” she said, groping her way along the wall.
Tariq watched her for a moment. He’d upset her with that last comment. He suspected it cut too close to the truth. For some reason, Amelie lacked a sense of self-worth, and he wondered why. What could this beautiful, vibrant, intelligent, compassionate young woman be wanting? What need was she seeking to fulfill in herself by her poor choices?
“You’re a fine one to talk about sabotage,” she called over her shoulder as she reached the steps. “You’re just wallowing in your own hurt, and I think you like it that way.”
Tariq followed her up the stairs. He chose not to dignify her comment with a response. She was right. But that was changing. She was making it change.
Outside the mist was now pouring like heavy smoke over the top of the perimeter wall that faced the sea, and the light was dim. As they walked slowly down to the old cemetery, a few dead leaves, still attached to the bare branches of trees, clicked in the mounting wind.
Bella rubbed her arms, wishing she’d brought her jacket out here. She glanced at Tariq’s close protection detail moving in shadows near the wall. This was the life of royalty, she imagined, always having someone near, watching, never truly being left alone. Especially for a prince and kingdom under terrorist threat.
Perhaps that’s why he craved solitude so intensely now.
“You’re cold,” he said. “And I’ve upset you.”
She wrapped her arms over her stomach. “Yeah,” she said. “But maybe you’re right. The truth hurts.”
Bella noted the way he glanced briefly at her breasts. Her nipples were tight with cold under her snug sweater, and his interest just tightened them further. There was still desire in the pitch blackness of his eye, and she’d felt a tenderness in him when he’d wiped away her tear. Despite his aloofness and anger, the healer still lurked in Tariq, as did the fires of passion. And in that moment, the realization hit her hard—she really was in some kind of love with the sheik. She, the little orphan from Chicago, was infatuated with an oil-rich and damaged prince. It was a life so far out of her league she could barely imagine living it. And it scared her, because she could see he wanted to take his desire further. So did she.
But she was also a lie.
The urge to come clean with him began to grow overpowering in Bella as she regarded his features, the mist closing in behind him like a shroud. Then she thought of the photograph in her back pocket, of what he’d do when he found out she’d taken it from his wallet.
She was still so unsure of him, and his reasons for secrecy. Or how he was linked to the senator.
“And after what I said to you, I guess I deserved it.” Bella turned and went to a toppled gravestone. Crouching down, she edged the creepers aside and dusted sand off the lichen-covered stone. It was damp and cold with mist. Angling her head she tried to read the inscription carved below angel wings. It was in Latin.
He translated from over her shoulder. “It says, ‘Here lies the body of Katherine Marie Dupres, 1789–1817.’”
The rest of the inscription was obscured by the blooms of rust-colored lichen.
“She was just my age when she died,” Bella said, looking up, taking in the tumbled headstones around her, some choked by tangled weeds, dry brambles. A few dead leaves scuttled suddenly over grass and stone as the wind gusted more sharply and a fine rain started to fall. Bella glanced up at the bare fingers of the trees stabbing into the darkening sky above the chapel, the crucifix silhouetted on top.
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